“When I meet a guy for the first time, I have no problem with his eyes wandering south for a second to check out my rack—that’s when I steal a glance at the little slip of landscape peeking out from the collar of his shirt. Is it heavily forested, gently grassy, or just a desert-like stretch of flesh, with nary a hair in sight to provide shade?” – Jessi Klein, writing for The Daily Beast.
Sadly Jessi, I have nothing. It’s not even that my chest is manscaped. I just can not grow a chest carpet.